


Ask the Keyhole

by pyrchance



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Jealousy, M/M, Secret Relationship, Summer of Like, Warped Tour 2005, warped2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26652010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrchance/pseuds/pyrchance
Summary: Patrick doesn't mean to spy on Pete's hookup. He doesn't mean to notice the line of hickeys either, or recognize the little moan Pete gives on his first cup of coffee.Patrick doesn't mean a lot of things, but he does mean to get to the bottom of Pete's secret girlfriend.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Mikey Way/Pete Wentz
Comments: 42
Kudos: 75
Collections: Warped 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My prompt was secret relationships.

There’s a giggle at the door that interrupts Patrick mid piss stream.

It’s a staff-only bathroom cordoned off from the press of the crowds, but that doesn’t stop Patrick from holding his breath (and piss) at the unwelcome noise. It’s only when he hears it again, louder and braying, like the intruder has just tripped through the bathroom door, that he realizes he recognizes that laugh.

Patrick tucks himself back into his pants as quickly as he can, not willing to have his dick out anywhere near whatever is making Pete Wentz giggle like that in a bathroom. He knows he’s right to be suspicious when he hears muttering and the click of the bathroom’s deadbolt.

“Shit. Shit, you _have_ to show me now,” Pete says, sounding exactly as whiny as he does when he’s arguing with Patrick about lyrics. Patrick doesn’t move. He’s torn between climbing on the toilet to hide his feet and barging out of the stall before his ears are scarred for life. Not that he’s never heard Pete get off before, but he likes to think there is a big difference between pretending not to hear someone jerk it in a bunk and hearing them whine like that against another person.

Patrick’s too late. There’s the smack of wet lips meeting and then the unmistakable sound of a zipper being drawn. Patrick thinks he wants to die right then and there and that’s before he hears the even more familiar sound of Pete moaning.

It sounds — well, it sounds almost exactly like the moan Pete gives sipping on his first cup of coffee in the morning or when he steps into a hot shower after two weeks on the bus or when he cons Andy into giving him one of his ridiculously magical back rubs. Patrick hates that he knows the sound. He hates even more that this moment is going to taint all of those simple moments of his waking life from here on out.

Patrick’s dick, on the other hand, does not hate it. He feels himself thicken in his pants and shoves a hand down, pushing at his erection like it’s an errant dog chewing on a forbidden shoe. He doesn’t _care_ if maybe Pete’s little moans have haunted him before this exact moment. He is _not_ connecting those dots. Not upon pain of _death_.

Pressing down on his dick is a fool’s errand though. All it does is make Patrick’s knees go momentarily fuzzy. He stumbles back with a little slip, shoe skidding across the tile floor with a terrible squeak.

The moans cut off abruptly. Silence rings on the other side of the stall wall. There’s a horrible, damning sort of pause and then—

“I gotta—God, fuck! Come on. Hurry up!”

Pete’s voice is hushed, panicked. There’s a flurry of zippers and shifting clothes on the other side and then the squeal of the bathroom door. Two pairs of footsteps scamper out, leaving Patrick with his hand pressed against his half-hard dick in a bathroom stall in the middle of Warped Tour.

“Fuck,” whispers Patrick to himself, slipping his hand into his pants. To finish pissing or to get off he doesn’t even know, he swears he doesn’t. He just knows that it is imperative he gets his hand on his dick right now.

He gets about as far as wrangling his dick out of his pants before he stops kidding himself. Patrick jerks himself hard and fast, until his quiet, desperate pants chime in with the vestige of Pete’s moans still ringing in his ears.

*

Pete climbs into Patrick’s bunk later that night. The bus is swaying in the best sort of tour lullaby but Patrick isn’t at all surprised to see Pete still awake. He budges over, grunting when Pete knees him in the gut on his mission to wedge himself between Patrick and the wall.

Patrick slips one headphone off of his ear and readjusts his hands on his keyboard as Pete squirms around to get comfortable.

“Tired?” Patrick asks, reading the grumpy lines pressed around Pete’s mouth. Sometimes Pete comes into Patrick’s bunk just because he’s bored. Sometimes he comes bearing lyrics. Most often it’s like this though, when Pete’s wound up and and driving in circles and looking for a soft place to land.

“I fucking hate touring.”

“No. You don’t,” Patrick laughs. “Also, that’s my line. Get your own.”

“Fine. I fucking hate _Warped_ tour. Happy?” Patrick just laughs more. “I’m serious. Who even made this schedule? It sucks. Would it kill them to throw a hotel night? It’s been like two weeks. I’m fucking sick of this stupid bus.”

Patrick hums. “The first leg of tour always sucks,” he agrees. Still, it’s the opposite of Patrick’s job to let Pete wallow in his misery. “Come on. Don’t tell me it’s all bad. At least the fans are showing up. And, hey. They’re sure giving you a good time.”

Patrick doesn’t mean for those words to slip out as they do. He just can’t help it that having Pete’s nose right up against his arm, exhales heavy and warm and wet on his skin, drags Patrick’s thoughts kicking and screaming back into that bathroom stall.

Pete digs his chin into Patrick’s bicep as he props himself up. “What do you mean?”

Patrick is not about to admit to his accidental voyeurism. If Pete didn’t recognize his shoes, then that’s just a piece of Patrick’s dignity he gets to cling to for a bit longer. “You know.”

“Nah. I kinda think I don’t though,” Pete says.

“You know what I mean,” Patrick huffs. “Don’t pretend you don’t like running around with everybody. You’ve barely even _been_ on the bus since we’ve started.”

Thankfully, Pete seems to take him at face value. “Aw, babe. Don’t be jealous. You know you’re my forever plus one. You know, if you ever decide to actually _leave_ the bus.”

Patrick sends an elbow into that shit-eating smile, because that’s what friends do. “I get out,” he says, because he does. He even volunteered to go on a grocery store run for one of the nightly cookouts. Not that anyone took him up on the offer, but still. “Just because I don’t want to burn to death in this stupid heat.”

“Careful, Trick, you’re starting to sound like one of the My Chem guys.”

“Stop right there. You’re not putting me in makeup,” Patrick says, because he knows how Pete’s mind works.

Pete just turns his head and snickers somewhere into Patrick’s armpit. Patrick shifts—that _tickles_ —and tries not to remember the giggles he’s already overheard today. He doesn’t need his wires getting any more tangled than they already are.

“You should sleep,” Patrick says, because once the chuckles die off Pete really does look worn. Maybe Patrick should call up their manager and ask about a hotel, even though he hates dealing with that part of the business. Or really, anything that could be considered business and not just making good music.

“Play me something?” Pete asks. Patrick contemplates the other sleeping bunks around around him and the potential for Joe and Andy’s wrath and shrugs the headphones off his ears. He settles them on his chest where he and Pete can both hear if he turns the volume up loud enough, then hits play on a different demo than what he’d been working on. Something slower and closer to done fills the narrow space inside his bunk.

Pete sighs and buries his head against Patrick’s arm. His t-shirt twists. Patrick doesn’t mean to look, has practice in studiously _not looking_ , when a smattering of reddish-purple bruises peaking up from just under the collar demand his eyes.

They look hastily done and sloppy. Patrick’s brain squeals like a bad amp trying to pin down if the moans he’d heard earlier were created in tandem with this line of hickeys. It is a bad, _terrible_ chain of thought that Patrick quickly snips, but not so quickly that his mind doesn’t conjure the image of some scene girl pressing Pete up against the bathroom sink, biting down on his collarbone before sinking to her knees, pulling those little sounds from Pete that are threatening to ruin Patrick.

If Pete notices the stiff way Patrick lies, or the careful way he tilts his hips away from his tired friend, he doesn’t say. Patrick keeps the demo on repeat, pretending to work, and carefully doesn’t move until Pete’s breathing steadies out into a deep, dead sleep.

*

It isn’t the first time that Pete has found a hookup on tour. There used to be a time when Pete’s charms were the only reason they ever got out of the van to crash on someone’s basement floor. Patrick had tried hooking up himself, the third or fourth time they left Chicago, when Pete had relaxed his startlingly accurate bodyguard routine enough for Patrick to slip around the clubs or dingy community halls without a shadow.

He got his first blowjob back then, from some guy who probably had blonde hair but definitely no name in Patrick’s recollection. He doesn’t regret it exactly. Who regrets getting a blowjob? It had helped him figure some shit out at least, but he’s since learned he prefers his partners to have faces that don’t blur in his memories.

The thing is, the basic facts of touring means that hookups are by nature one night stands. Patrick doesn’t think much of Pete’s bathroom buddy beyond a flash of some green emotion he doesn’t like to prod at. He can’t be threatened by someone who’ll be gone in twelve hours.

When Pete stumbles close to lean against Patrick during _Saturday_ a week after the bathroom incident with a new hickey bit into almost the exact place of the last one, Patrick realizes he has completely misread the situation.

He resolves to fix it as soon as possible.

“Yo, Trickster! You came!” beams Pete long after the show but while the sun and the heat are still high. Patrick tries to make his smile less of a grimace as Pete bounces up from the plastic lawn chair he’d been lounging in, sitting with a group of band and crew guys Patrick only sort of knows. They’re sitting around a cooler of beers on top of which a card game is ongoing.

“What are you playing?” Patrick asks, nodding his head as the various guys greet him. He recognizes one of My Chem’s guitarists — Ray, he thinks — and a skinny dude Patrick vaguely knows as Gerard Way’s little brother. They were on warped last year too, but Patrick mostly just spoke to the drummer, Bob. Patrick was maybe a bit of a recluse that time too.

“Go Fish!” Pete chirps, taking Patrick by the shoulders and shoving him into his discarded chair. He foists his hand of cards into Patrick’s fingers. “We’re paying for wet wipes and ramen. Don’t fuck it up.”

That said, Pete throws himself into the lap of the skinny dude, who huffs at the weight but doesn’t say anything. It’s clear Pete’s been spending some time with these guys if that’s all the reaction his antics are gathering. Patrick really hasn’t been paying close enough attention.

“Very sophisticated,” Patrick nods, looking around the circle of guys, seeing who else he can place. Maybe Pete’s a little bit right. Perhaps he doesn’t need to leave the bus more. He’s having trouble pinning names on most of them, even though he’s musically checked out almost every band on the bill.

There are no girls in the card game. Patrick’s a bit disappointed, but it figures that whoever Pete’s been hooking up with must be around here somewhere. There aren’t that many girls on tour with them, not even taking in account the techs and support crew. It’s Patrick’s right as Pete’s best friend and bandmate to be curious. He’s seen the mess that relationships can have on Pete’s head. He sings about it on a daily basis.

Patrick pulls his hat further down his face, trying to block out the last of the sun’s rays, and studies his the cards. The game goes by with the ease of something designed to pass the time and not to win, even if Pete crows every time Patrick pulls a pair. He swats Pete’s hands away when he gets too into the idea of playing as a team, then swats them away again when Pete retaliates by trying to tip his chair.

Ray and Patrick get into chatting about BBQ techniques as the smell of that night’s cookout drifts towards them from somewhere else in the parking lot. That clears a lot of the players off, leaving Pete and Patrick with Ray and Mikey—that’s the little brother, and My Chem bassist apparently—sitting with the deck discarded as they wait for the lines to die down.

“I can’t take this anymore,” groans Pete, rolling off of Mikey’s lap and clutching at his stomach.

“Maybe stop eating the ramen dry then, dumbass,” Patrick shoots back.

Pete gives him a sour look. He stands. “I’m getting real food. Toro? Mikey? You with me?”

So much for being Pete’s plus one. Patrick rolls his eyes as Ray takes Pete up on his offer, promising to report on the pickings when he returns. That leaves Patrick with just Mikey, who’s some kind of quiet type. He turns to find Mikey staring at the ground somewhere near Patrick’s feet and wonders how someone this shy ends up on Warped Tour. Or, for that matter, in a band blowing up as big as My Chemical Romance.

“Thanks for dealing with him,” Patrick says, because Pete’s basically been hanging off the guy all night. “Let me know if you need to tap out.”

“Tap out?” echoes Mikey, head lifting.

“You know. If you need a break. Trust me. I know Pete can be a lot to handle.”

Mikey looks at Patrick. He’s got these narrow eyes made huge behind the frames of his glasses and fading eyeliner. He seems a lot less shy with the pinched expression on his face. “You know?”

“I mean, I’ve been putting up with him for years,” Patrick says, shrugging. Then he realizes how that came out and winces. “Don’t get me wrong. I love him. He’s basically the reason I’m here today. I just also know what it’s like to live with him. Let me know if you need me to rein him in.”

“Right,” Mikey says slowly, head tilting as he peers at Patrick. He’s built like a classic scene boy, cigarette-skinny limbs and a mess of product-filled hair. It does something stupid to the insecure fifteen-year-old still hiding in Patrick to have a guy like that look at him.

“You know, he talks about you a lot,” Mikey says. “You’re not what I was expecting.”

“Let me guess. Shorter?”

“No. He made that part pretty clear.” Mikey smirks a little as he says this. It breaks the aloofness that had been hanging over him this whole time.

“Jerk,” Patrick mutters.

Mikey’s smirk grows and fades for a moment like a sputtered candle. He shakes his head. “I guess I just thought he’d be as honest about some other things. He seems like a totally open book when you meet him, you know?”

Patrick nods. He does know.

“Guess I should have known better,” Mikey sighs. “Sorry. You’re probably the last person who wants to hear all this. I didn’t mean to step on any toes.”

“No. No, you didn’t,” Patrick says quickly. “I didn’t mean to scare you off. You can spend as much time with Pete as you’d like.”

Mikey’s head tilts even more. “You don’t mind?”

“Just let me know if he starts bothering you too much. He’s got a bunk on the bus he’s barely using, you know?”

“Okay.” Mikey stares at him for a beat. “He’s not bothering me.”

“Well,” says Patrick, “if he _does_ …”

The conversation trails off into a sort of awkward lull. Contrary to popular belief, Patrick likes talking to people. He just likes it best when that communication happens one on one rather than to a whole crowd.

Even so, it’s hard to talk to anyone when they just sit there stone-faced, staring at the cooler between their shoes like it holds the pick of destiny instead of half-warm beers.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know Patrick's stellar performance during Family Feud? Yeah, that's the kind of dummy vibes we're channeling here. 
> 
> Get the boy a clue, please!


	2. Chapter 2

Nothing on Earth is as maddening as Pete Wentz in love.

Patrick knows the signs. Pete trips into love the way most people trip on sidewalk curbs, awkwardly and suddenly and all at once. It happens in the odd hours of night, with Pete climbing back into his bunk with gleaming eyes and a well-fed smirk. It appears as short sleeves and pointed marks worn for the crowd to devour. It sneaks in the way Pete does to Patrick’s bunk, often and not subtly at all. It’s messy and daring and glorious; the best manic honeymoon the world’s ever seen.

Patrick absolutely loathes it.

Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe he should savor the easy smiles of Pete in love. Maybe he would, if he didn’t know how it ended. See, Pete doesn’t like to let go of love once he’s found it, even after it’s curdled in his hands. It’s when it is time to drag Pete’s fingernails out of a soured love that the problems start.

Patrick is determined not to let it get that far.

*

“Dude, where are you going?” Joe hisses, bushy head poking out from behind his bunk curtain despite Patrick’s best attempt to get dressed quietly.

Patrick finishes zipping up his jacket and stuffs his hands into his pockets, shrugging. “Pete’s not back yet.”

“Okay. And?”

“And he’s going to miss bus call,” Patrick says. “I’m just going to go find him.”

“What? No, dude. Just leave him. He’s fine. It’s Pete.”

“Exactly,” nods Patrick. “I’ll be right back.”

He hurries from the bunk room, Joe’s declaration of “Not worth it!” getting lost as the bus door slams behind him.

The summer night greets him with a press of stale, gas-stained air. He hustles away from the bus, not wanting to attract attention from the security guys finishing a few beers as the trailer gets loaded up. If there are kids around, Patrick would rather just handle them on his own. He doesn’t need the witnesses.

It is late, but Patrick’s always been a night owl. The stars are always bright in the middle of America. He hunts through the collapsing bus lot to the distant beats of dying parties, passing by straggling musicians stumbling drunk back to their bunks. Under the armpit of almost all of them is a harried friend quietly instructing them where to place their feet. Right where Patrick should be.

It’s bus call, thinks Patrick’s head. Do you know where your bandmates are?

The stages and all the booths are gone from the fairgrounds where they laid their day-time scene, but the music leads Patrick down over the flattened yellow grasses to a circle of picnic tables still roused with movement. Bands with a later bus call than his are in full swing. An old school boombox is up on one table feeding dance beats to a crowd barely sober enough to bounce their heads. No one notices Patrick until he taps one of them on the shoulder.

“Sorry. Have you seen Pete Wentz?”

“What?”

“Pete. Pete Wentz. From Fall Out Boy?”

“Dude. Show’s over. No one’s giving autographs.”

So that doesn’t go extremely well. Patrick picks his way around the party, and okay. Yes. He fully admits he needs to spend more time outside of the bus socializing. He doesn’t recognize _anyone_ there. Not even any of the crew.

Which is exactly when he spies the thin figure hiking his way back towards the tables, skinny shoulders hunched into a familiar jacket. Patrick would know _Decaydance_ merch anywhere. It’s practically all he sees these days. What takes him a few moments longer is placing the person inside of it.

Mikey Way looks up almost like he senses he’s being watched. His pointy chin turns as he takes in the party, eventually landing on Patrick. Mikey stops walking at the same time Patrick picks up his pace and hurries over.

“Hey. Hey, man. Have you seen Pete around here?”

“He just left,” Mikey says. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Patrick shakes his head. “Nothing. Look, did you notice anyone with him?”

Mikey shrugs. He looks smaller in Pete’s jacket, which is funny given their difference in height. He really is that skinny though. “Just me.”

“Well fuck,” says Patrick succinctly.

“Everything okay?” Mikey asks, shifting on his twig legs. “Isn’t your bus call soon?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I should go. Thanks.”

“I’ll come with you,” Mikey says. “I should have walked Pete back anyway. I told him he needed to get back but he was kind of wasted.”

Patrick laughs without humor. That makes two people who failed to be that person for Pete tonight. At least Pete is probably back on the bus, not falling digging himself into a deeper whole to get his heartbroken in.

Their shoes crunch over gravel and grass as they hike their way back toward the busses. Mikey’s is pink in the nose, probably tipsy. Patrick can’t help but notice the way his wrists stick out of the sleeves, the opposite of how jackets usually fall over Patrick’s own smaller limbs. He really is a scene kid’s dream.

“Did Pete give you that?” Patrick asks, nodding at the hoodie.

Mikey doesn’t need to ask what he’s talking about. “It’s his. I’m just borrowing it.”

“He must like you a lot,” Patrick observes. Pete’s pretty free with his affection, but he can be stingy with what he thinks is _his_. His budding label one of those things.

Mikey smiles a bit. His hands curl into the sleeves, like he wants to pull them down like Patrick would. “Yeah. Yeah, I like him too.”

“That’s good.” Patrick cups his hands, blowing on them as they pass back through the smattering of dividers still fencing off the bus lot. He glances over at Mikey, finding him smiling slightly while looking down. “Thanks for watching out for him. He needs people, you know? In his corner. I should have said that before.”

“You’re in his corner,” says Mikey, turning to him.

A little burst of heat fills Patrick’s chest. A little pop of pride. “Of course I am.”

Mikey’s chin tilts. “He’s lucky to have that.”

They’re back at Patrick’s bus faster than Patrick found his way out of it. He hasn’t missed bus call quite yet, but the engine is rumbling as he walks towards the door. The security guys have gone to bed.

“Well, I should go check on him,” Patrick says, punching in his code. “Thanks for making sure he got back okay.”

“Yeah. Of course. Sorry for keeping him.”

There’s something in Mikey’s tone that makes Patrick hesitate before opening the door. Mikey’s looking at Patrick and his glasses really do change his narrow eyes into twin search lights.

“You good, man?” asks Patrick.

“Yeah.” Mikey blinks. “You know,” he continues in a dropped, slow voice, “I could be in your corner too. If you ever wanted to hang out sometime.”

“Sorry? What?”

“It’s up to you,” Mikey shrugs. “I just thought I’d put it out there. You and me. And Pete, if you want.”

And look. Patrick maybe isn’t the most gregarious person on the planet, but he knows an undertone when he hears it. Face burning, it takes everything he has not to run inside and slam the door in Mikey’s face.

“Uh, look. I don’t. I’m not. Pete doesn’t really go for that kind of thing,” Patrick stutters.

“Okay.” Mikey doesn’t look bothered. Or even embarrassed. “Just us then. If you want.”

It’s like Patrick’s thoughts have hit a pothole and sent him tumbling out of his bunk. He must have hit his head somewhere along the walk back to the bus, because there is no way someone like Mikey Way is propositioning someone like him.

“You’d want to…with me? _Why_?”

Mikey actually laughs. It’s a tiny, huffing sound. Patrick can feel himself staring and blushing and doing all kinds of humiliating bodily things.

“Pete likes you,” Mikey says, like it’s that easy. “I didn’t get it at first, but I do now. Besides, I trust Pete’s judgement.”

Patrick just. Patrick just can’t compute this. He’s taken lengths to keep his whole…deal under wraps for years. And here comes Mikey Fucking Way from out of nowhere figuring him out the second time they ever actually meet.

“Does Pete know?” Patrick asks. “About…”

He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Really what is he even asking? Does Pete know Mikey is into dudes? Does he care? How did he find out? How did he react?

And Patrick knows he’s stupid to be stuck on this. He knows that Pete’s spends more time on camera teasing about his sexuality than he does their new songs. He knows that Pete would probably shrug it off like he does everything. And Patrick doesn’t want to be scared. Doesn’t want to think the worst of Pete.

But he also doesn’t want to lose the easy way Pete smiles at him. Or the press of his forehead leaned against him on stage. Or the warmth of Pete tucked away and sleeping at Patrick’s side.

So he has to ask.

“We’d tell him,” Mikey says and that’s when Patrick knows nothing that Mikey is offering will ever be truly on the table for him. It doesn’t matter that part of Patrick is tempted. It doesn’t matter if this is the most honest offer he’s had in years.

Pete can’t know.

“I’m sorry,” says Patrick. “I can’t.”

Mikey looks crestfallen for only a moment, before picking his chin up. “I get it,” he says. “Guess I had to try. Tell Pete I said good night.”

“Good night,” says Patrick.

He stands there a beat too long, hand on the bus door, watching Mikey walk away.

*

Does Patrick regret it? There’s a moment where he does. Where he climbs back onto the bus alone and thinks about how his life has led to him turning away someone as impossible as Mikey Way. Then he stumbles over Pete’s legs in the front lounge and remembers.

His arms come under Pete, hefting him up. “Okay. Let’s get you to bed.”

“You,” slurs Pete, leaning heavily as Patrick leads him back to the bunks, “Joe said you left. I was gonna—gonna go find you.”

“I was looking for you, dumbass. Sit down.”

Pete sits where Patrick puts him, smiling goofily as Patrick yanks on his shoelaces and drops them to the floor. His hand pats Patrick on the shoulder, probably because he knows better than to go for the hat. Yeah, Mikey wasn’t lying about Pete being wasted.

“You’re supposed to be here,” Pete half-whispers, stroking Patrick’s collar bone as Patrick peels of his disgusting socks.

“I’m here now,” Patrick says. “Come on. Time to go to sleep.”

“Mm. God. Sleep,” moans Pete and yep. Patrick knew that business in the bathroom would haunt him. That’s just not _fair._

It’s a good thing Joe and Andy have practice ignoring late night noises. Pete is in no way graceful as Patrick shoves him into his bunk for the night. He smacks his lips loudly, his breath is going to _reek_ tomorrow, and shoves a hand out at Patrick.

“Come on. Come on, Trick. Come to sleep.”

Patrick knows what he means. Knows as Pete wiggles against the wall exactly what he’s making room for.

And it’s just that. This. The moment when Patrick slides off his own shoes and joins Pete in his bed that Patrick knows whatever he’s given up for this moment is worth it.

Pete is worth it. Even if he isn’t really Patrick’s at all.

_*_

So Patrick is avoiding Mikey Way now. Which is a difficult task to do when he’s also made it his mission to semi-stalk his best friend.

At least when Pete is with Mikey they’re usually on the My Chem bus, holed up playing video games or whatever it is they do when they disappear for a few hours. It’s tricky to track Pete after shows, especially since Mikey has taken to standing in the wings for most of their performances like a startlingly exclamation point designed to draw Patrick’s attention.

He drops his guitar pick the first time he notices Mikey standing there. So that’s how well Patrick’s dealing with _that_.

The only good change is that Pete is returning to the bus each night without Patrick’s intervention. Patrick would think maybe his secret tryst had finally died off, if Pete was not continuing to moon like a man in love.

He shoves lyrics to a love song into Patrick’s hands one day, fidgeting with a new jacket Patrick doesn’t recognize. His hoodie must still be with Mikey. Thinking about Mikey in Pete’s clothing is confusing though, especially now, so Patrick carefully doesn’t think about it at all.

“I know it’s not our usual thing,” Pete mutters, looking as embarrassed to be handing the lyrics over as Patrick is to receive it, “but I showed it to someone and they said it was good so…”

“Who is it for?” Patrick stares down Pete’s familiar scrawl without taking in a single word.

“Oh, uh. Nothing that’s real. Doesn’t matter.”

Which is such bullshit. Pete is just lucky Patrick doesn’t call him on it.

Patrick doesn’t crumple the paper up, because these words are Pete’s and he wouldn’t do that, but he does let them die a slow, sweaty death in his back pocket, refusing to get them out anywhere near an instrument.

*

Meanwhile, signing on this tour has gotten ridiculous. Patrick’s heard somewhere that they’re averaging several hundreds of kids each night, which while very sweet is almost killing Patrick’s voice with the amount of ‘hey, how are you’s he’s expected to give.

Usually he lets Pete take the lead on these things. That’s kind of quintessential to their whole arrangement as a band. So Patrick is a bit pissed when Pete excuses himself for what supposed to be a five minute break and doesn’t come back for the rest of the hour long signing session.

“Don’t hit him,” Andy advises sagely as the three members of Fall Out Boy who actually did their jobs wander away from the signing tent.

“I’m not going to hit him,” Patrick mutters, though he’s not actually sure about that.

“At least avoid the kids’ cameras,” Joe adds, also looking peeved. Not that that’s a particularly unusual look for the grumpy guitarist, but Patrick feels solidarity in it anyway.

Patrick waves both of them off as they stumble back into the band only area. Security doesn’t follow them around once they’re past the barricades which is a blessing. Patrick doesn’t love showing his ugly side to people that haven’t spent time living in a van with him.

He’s the only one to troop back towards the bus, pissed at the heat and Pete and everything. He presses the code for the door, frowning when a blast of air conditioning hits him as he barges up the stairs. They’re not supposed to run the AC when they’re not actually on the bus, even though that means the inside can get to surface of the sun temperatures. Apparently it kills the battery.

Patrick’s ire towards Pete ticks from angry to livid in the matter of seconds.

Patrick stalks back towards the bunks. He yanks back Pete’s curtain only to find his rat’s nest of bedding and pillows empty. Fantastic.

It’s then that he hears the thump coming from the back lounge. The door is closed, but not latched. It leaves a sliver of space that Patrick can just see through when he walks towards the door and prepares to rip Pete a knew one.

Of course Pete would ditch signing to fuck his stupid secret girlfriend in the empty bus. Patrick might actually kill him.

The part of him that wants to yank open the back door dies when he gets a good look between that crack. There’s skin on display. A lot of it. Long pale limbs tangle against Pete’s naked back. Pete’s on top, pressing the other body down into the seats. Patrick can’t make out a face, but he sees the way those pale hands scrape down Pete’s back and the rocking of their bodies.

“ _God_ ,” groans Pete, and Patrick’s never heard him sound like _that_ before—desperate and whiny and rumbling deep down in his throat. It sends Patrick rocketing back from the door like he’s been shot.

That’s all it takes for him to grow hard against his own leg. Patrick doesn’t think before he reaches his hand down his pants and squeezes, eyes slipping shut while a noise of his own grows in his throat. He gets about three strokes in before he realizes exactly what it is that he’s doing.

That’s not some random porn noises he’s hearing. that is his _best friend_ having sex in the back lounge of their bus. Patrick snatches his hand out of his pants, wiping the wetness that’s already smeared on his fingers onto the first curtain he feels behind him.

He’s already breathing hard, but nowhere near as hard as the voices just beyond the door. Pete’s grunting low and deep. There’s another voice and it’s making these soft little sighs with every thump that reverberates throughout the bus.

Patrick should go. Patrick should go _now._ But it’s like he’s rooted to the spot.

His dick throbs angrily when he presses his palm down on it, this time with the intent to suppress. It’s all just pressure though. Pressure that Patrick can rock up into, fucking against his palm to the beat of Pete’s moans.

The sounds pick up. The higher voice going high and Pete’s going low as the frenzy of groaning and panting reaches its climax.

It’s embarrassingly fast how quickly Patrick spills. The shock of his own come leaking wet and messy in his pants drenches him in ice water. He stumbles even further back from the door, the murmur of voices coming down on the other side muffling the further away he gets.

He can’t—He can’t go _outside_ like this. He can’t let Pete _know_ what he just did either. He can’t be caught.

Patrick scrambles into his bunk and pulls the curtains, just as the shuffling in the back lounge merges into the sounds of two people standing up and moving around. He can just barely make out the sound of Pete’s voice, back to normal now, bursts of laughter reaching Patrick now from where he’s hidden away.

A few seconds late, he hears the scrape of the backdoor sliding open.

“—guy’s will be back soon,” Pete is saying as two sets of footsteps tromp into the bunk area. “I’ll follow you. Lemme just grab a clean shirt.”

Patrick presses up against the wall of his bunk and holds his breath. There’s the pull of the curtains just below his own bunk. The curtains are thick, but Patrick can almost imagine he sees the silhouette of two people standing just outside his hiding place, nothing but that slip of fabric separating them.

There’s the rustle of Pete digging around his bunk and what must be the sound of him pulling on a new shirt. An elbow knocks against Patrick’s curtain, pulling it open just the slightest bit, and Patrick can’t move. He’s as stuck as those frozen kids from Jurassic Park and twice as terrified.

“I’m starving,” Pete declares and then — yes! finally!— the sound of his footsteps moving away. “What time do you go on tonight?”

Patrick doesn’t hear the response. Can’t over the rushing in his ears as he finally takes in a new breath. He hears the creak of the bus door opening and then,

“Aren’t you coming?”

Patrick freezes all over again. He looks up. Up towards the door. Up towards the gap in his curtain. He looks right into the gaze of a narrowed brown eye staring huge at him through the gap in the curtain.

Patrick runs cold.

“Yeah,” grunts Mikey Way, blinking and looking away. “I’m coming.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Literally got this chapter up with one minute until midnight, but *technically* that means I'm still on track to finish this thing before the Warped 2020 window closes. 
> 
> Phew. Let's get these dummies home.


	3. Chapter 3

The bus turns sleek and slippery as they wind their way down through the Pacific Northwest. The fog lingers in Patrick’s head even as they turn back towards the heartlands of America. Their brief stop in Canada is cut into fragments of glass-sharp memories. He remembers in pieces.

Cold water on his hands as he washes his underwear in the tiny bathroom sink.

Lips against his neck as a thousands of kids scream.

A shadow in the wings with huge narrow eyes.

They have three days off just on the other side of Colorado. Patrick can’t go on as he is, spiraling in his own thoughts, fighting the urge to punch walls like some lovesick teenager and hiding his wounded knuckles up his sleeves. He tells himself if he can just make it to those three days. Three days to close a real door and be behind four solid walls. Three days to settle the monster in his chest. If he can just make it to then, he’ll be okay.

Until those three days, Patrick only gets off the bus to sing and sign and shit.

*

The other guys must thing he’s sick or something because two days out from Colorado and Pete turns up with actual soup in a styrofoam take-out bowl.

Patrick hasn’t seen a lot of Pete since that night he caught him the backroom. That’s the whole point of Patrick sequestering himself to his bunk. The most he’s seen of Pete are the moments when he hears Pete stumble back into his bunk each night for bus call. Or almost each night. It’s the times when he hears nothing at all that Patrick stares at the ceiling and doesn’t sleep.

“It’s egg drop,” says Pete, balancing the carton on the edge of Patrick’s bunk. “I wanted to get you chicken noodle, but this Asian place was the only one that would deliver out here.”

The warm place in Patrick’s chest where Pete lives aches. Pete’s in a shirt he doesn’t recognize. It’s too tight on him. Patrick wonders absently if Pete ever got his hoodie back. If anyone was as big an idiot at him.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the soup.

“You want to come hang in the lounge? I’ve got _Terminator_.”

The words and Pete’s casual smile are so at odds with the whole-body stiffness Patrick is experiencing it takes a moment for him to rummage his brain for a response. When he finds it, it’s not great. “I’m tired,” he says.

The crease between Pete’s brows deepens as he tip-toes his way to peer into Patrick’s face. “Fuck, sorry. Did I wake you up? I thought you’d still be awake.”

It isn’t even eleven. Rumors of his illness must be rampant. “You’re fine. Thanks for the soup.”

“Course,” says Pete. There are two thumps as his shoes hit the ground, and then Patrick has to jerk back as Pete launches himself into his bunk without warning. The soup sloshes—thank god against the lid—but Patrick still hisses. Pete pauses awkwardly, his torso half in and half out of the bunk.

“What are you doing?” Patrick demands.

“Coming up?” Pete says, like it should be obvious.

“Well don’t!” Patrick says sharply. Pete jerks back, eyes going wide as he pulls back. “I said I’m tired, Pete. What are you even doing here?”

“Andy says you’re sick.”

“I’m fine. Would you just—Jesus, would you just get down!”

Pete lands with a thud. His face peers up hurt and confused just over the edge of Patrick’s bunk. “Okay,” Pete says slowly, eyes showing his confusion. “I’m sorry?”

Patrick sighs loudly. He lets go of the carton to scrub at his face with one hand. “Goddamnit. Don’t be sorry, Pete. You just—You don’t need to do this, okay?”

“It’s not, like, a chore,” says Pete, head tilting. “I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do,” says Patrick firmly. He sighs again, suddenly exhausted. “I just want to be alone right now, okay? I’m sorry.”

Pete is silent for a long moment. Patrick looks down at the sheets underneath him so as not to see the expression he’s surely put on his face. Pete doesn’t ever do well with rejection. The beginnings of guilt eats at Patrick, but he doesn’t change his mind.

“Right,” says Pete finally. “I’ll just put that in the fridge then for you. Sorry.”

Hands pluck the soup up from the mattress. Patrick only raises his eyes once Pete has walked away. He rolls onto his back, burying head in his hands and groaning. He closes his eyes as the bus door slams close.

*

Three days. Patrick just needs those three days.

The band leaves him alone. He briefly overhears his name said in whispers in the front lounge, but he turns over in his bunk and doesn’t even try to listen. It must be Joe and Andy. Pete doesn’t make it in for the next two bus calls.

There’s no way the My Chem guys don’t know. Andy and Joe must have noticed his absences as well. They must be putting the pieces together, faster than Patrick ever did.

That’s the thing. As much has Patrick is pretending that nothing has happened, it seems like Pete is working on the opposite agenda. He doesn’t read Pete’s blog—he never has, he’ll take the words Pete gives him directly—but he hears when the fans begin to talk. He sees when Pete turns up wearing clothes that don’t belong to him. There isn’t a shirt of Pete’s that Patrick doesn’t know. He spots the slip of Mikey Way standing like a ghost in the wings of their shows, barely out of sight of the crowds. Sometimes not even that.

Patrick would accuse Pete of not caring except that he’s toured with Pete for years. They’ve lived in a van together. They’ve shared an apartment. If Pete being into guys wasn’t something he was trying to hide, Patrick would know. Secrets don’t keep in a band unless someone is very, very determined. Patrick knows this from experience. He’s kept his own preferences buried only through pure absence and blatant denial since his very first days of experimentation.

So what if Pete has been known to play up the stage gay? Patrick isn’t stupid. It’s called _stage_ gay for a reason.

Except that Patrick is apparently an idiot because he’s seen the proof that Pete’s into guys with his own eyes and ears. Pete is clearly into guys. Guys like Mikey Way. Guys who are not Patrick Stump.

Apparently, he’s even into them enough to let part of the world see.

Patrick really doesn’t know what to do with that.

*

Patrick stumbles out of his bunk at 3pm the day of the Colorado show to Mikey perched in his front lounge. The DVD machine is booted up, but nothing is playing. The icon just bumps from corner to corner across the blue screen.

“Hey,” says Mikey, glancing up from his phone as Patrick stands frozen in the doorframe. “There’s coffee in the pot.”

Patrick’s thought a lot about what he would do the next time he sees Mikey Way. Somehow, none of those things occur. Patrick does not scream or holler to kick things. He doesn’t even hide. He takes the pot of coffee and pours some into his designated mug and sits down at the kitchenette table directly across from Mikey.

Their knees do not knock. Patrick keeps his limbs firmly pulled to himself.

Mikey’s fingers fly across his phone. His head looks like more hairspray and grease than hair, piled up like the nest of an angry bird. Patrick studies the sharp lines of Mikey’s chin and knobby shoulders and tries to see if there’s anything particularly feminine about him, as if a trim waist could somehow be the reason Pete’s stumbled into a new ballpark.

“Where’s Pete?” asks Patrick, looking around like Pete might suddenly spring out from beneath the couch curtains and jump him. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Walmart run.”

“Oh.” Patrick stares at Mikey. He doesn’t look up. “You didn’t want to go with him?”

“Busy.”

“Doing what?”

“This.”

“This?”

Mikey stops typing on his phone. More correctly, he spends ten long seconds writing something, presses send, and then slides the thing closed and slips it into the minuscule pocket of his skinny jeans. He settles back more properly into his seat, looking at Patrick with a shrewd stare.

“Talking to you,” Mikey clarifies. “Pete told me you were sick.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Patrick’s fingernails dig nervous wedges into the cup. To be quite frank, Patrick has always found the creepiness of My Chemical Romance to be something of a gimmick. It’s not a bad one, obviously not or they wouldn’t be where they are, but still something exaggerated to sell magazines and records. There is only so much fake bloody pictures Patrick can take before it grows a bit stale.

Perhaps he should have spent more time with My Chem on the last Warped Tour though. Wilting under Mikey Way’s flat, pressing stare reminds Patrick all too much of the man in the Salem Witch Trials who was pressed to death with the slow addition of several heavy rocks. What begins as a simple look quickly becomes far too much.

“I’m not going to say anything,” Patrick says finally, when Mikey does nothing but sit and stare at him.

Mikey nods. “Yeah. I know.”

Does he? A secret like this could ruin a whole career. If Patrick were in his place he’d be on his knees begging. Or, well, maybe not on his knees. That would maybe be a bit too on the head. Or—no, _on_ the head. What Patrick means is—

“Pete says you’ve been upset with him,” Mikey continues, tearing through Patrick’s thoughts. He sighs. “Look, I clearly freaked you out. If I crossed a line somewhere—“

“If you crossed a _line?_ ”

“You’re not an easy person to read,” says Mikey, frowning. “I’m sorry if I screwed up asking you out. I just know Pete wants us to be friends.”

“What?”

“Obviously, you’re not into it,” Mikey says. “That’s fine.” His hands spread wide as he gestures through the air between them. “I just don’t want you to feel like you need to avoid me because of it or make things weird with Pete. I don’t want to come between you two.”

Patrick laughs. It’s a sharp, mean sound. He knows he’s going to regret what comes out of his mouth, even before it escapes. “Maybe you should have thought about that before fucking him.”

“Excuse me?” Mikey’s eyes narrow behind his glasses. His arms cross over his chest. “You told me you were cool with this.”

Patrick’s thoughts crash. The whiplash stings Patrick’s cheeks. “I did _what_?”

“You told me you guys were open,” Mikey says stiffly. “I’m not going to apologize now for sleeping with Pete. It’s not my fault if you changed your mind.”

Patrick stares open mouth at Mikey. His body grows cold with a sudden horror. “What are you—What are you _talking_ about? Why the fuck would I say that? It’s not—I’m—I don’t _dictate_ who Pete fucks.”

Mikey rolls his eyes. “Because clearly you’re so fine with it.”

“I don’t—“ stammers Patrick. “If you two want to—if you and him are happy, fucking leave me out of it.”

“He’s your boyfriend,” Mikey scoffs. “Of course you’re part of it.”

Patrick freezes. His thoughts crash into a brick wall going about five hundred miles per hour. His entire body actually stops. His hands come crashing down to the table, limp. He stares at Mikey and he doesn’t even blink. It’s like his brain has been cut off from the rest of his body.

When he eventually comes back to himself, Mikey Way has uncrossed his arms and is staring at him with a tiny line between his brow.

Patrick licks his lips. He laughs. It lasts for all of one chuckle and it hurts like a bad hiccup.

He says, “Pete is not my boyfriend.”

It’s Mikey’s turn to look at him, confused. “What?”

“Pete is not my boyfriend,” Patrick repeats, louder.

“What,” says Mikey, but it’s not a question this time.

“Yeah,” —and maybe Patrick snarls the word. Maybe he is getting mad now. Maybe that’s allowed. He stands up from the table with a lurch, spinning around to add, “So you can just fuck off or fuck him or whatever the fuck you want. I don’t fucking care.”

Mikey just stares at him, mouth forming a perfect little circle of surprise. “Oh,” he says.

Patrick can’t be here. He can’t be anywhere near here. He turns and storms right back to his bunk, jerking the slider door closed and breathing in too heavily. He stuffs his headphones over his ears for his own sake.

So. So Mikey Way didn’t even know. So Mikey thought Patrick and Pete were...were together? Had an arrangement? An arrangement Mikey apparently thought Patrick had invited him to be a part of. So what? It isn’t true. None of it is. It’s all just one big fucking misunderstanding.

Patrick isn’t going to listen to himself cry. No way. Not because of Mikey Fucking Way and least of all because of himself.

It’s just one more night. Just one more show.

*

There isn’t much about the show that night that Patrick remembers. Perhaps he really is getting sick. That would explain the haze that comes over him as one moment he’s walking onto the stage and the next he finds himself standing out side of a hotel room, key card in hand.

“Is it stuck?”

“What?”

“The door,” says Pete, shifting behind him, “did the card get stuck?”

“Oh. No.” Patrick slides the key card in to the lock. Pete brushes past him and throws his stuff onto a bed. Patrick is just stepping through the door, when Pete comes gliding out past him again, not even looking over.

“I’m gonna go find the rest of the guys,” he says. “See you later.”

The hotel door shuts with a soft click.

It doesn’t open again for the rest of the night.

*

Patrick’s whole body protests laying down on the empty bed. His muscles demand movement. He gets up and paces the length of the room.

Three days is what he promised himself. Three days to get his head back on straight.

Patrick steps into the shower and scrubs until his chest and legs and arms are tender pink. When he steps out of the bathroom he takes in the mound of Pete’s things on his bed. He sees his own shirt sticking out Pete’s laundry bag.

There. He can start there. Patrick nods to himself. He needs to detangle. He’s let himself be twisted up in knots for too long. He always knew his wires were crossed. It’s time to cut himself out.

He starts with their clothes. It’s a simple enough thing. He picks his own shirts out of Pete’s pile and puts them back into his own bag. Then, he finds the few jackets and hats he’s borrowed from Pete and folds them nearly back to where they belong.

It’s the first time since their first tour probably that every article in Patrick’s bag belongs just to him. It’s a start.

He picks up his laundry bag and walks outside. He doesn’t know what time it is, but there’s bound to be a laundry mat around here somewhere. It’s high time he got himself clean.

*

They have interviews scheduled the next day because of course they do. True days off don’t exist on tour.

At the radio station they sit in their usual order. Pete then Patrick then Joe then Andy. It doesn’t really surprise any of them when Pete takes up the majority of the airspace. That’s his job. Patrick’s only real contribution comes only after Joe nudges him in the ribs after he misses a question.

They shuttle back to the hotel afterwards, bundled up in a taxi together like little kids from a soccer game. Patrick somehow gets smooshed into the middle, with Pete and Andy on either side. No one talks the whole ride.

When they get out, a small crowd of fans is gathered on the sidewalk having sniffed out their hotel. Andy and Joe make a break first, managing to break through with only minimal mauling. Patrick looks over at Pete to see him looking out the window with his jaw working.

Patrick thinks he should say something. It feels like it’s been weeks since they have talked, even though that’s not strictly true. He breathes out slowly and reaches for Pete’s wrist. That’s normal. He’s getting over it. That’s the whole point. He has to get over this.

“You ready?”

Pete’s eyes slide off the window to Patrick’s hand on his wrist. His mouth tenses almost woodenly, before his gaze lifts to Patrick’s face.

“Yeah,” he answers. His hands slips out from under Patrick’s as he opens his door. “Let’s go.”

They get mobbed. That’s the only word for it. They should have gotten out of the car first, before the kids could go and summon more of their friends. It seems as though there are suddenly hundreds of them standing between them and the hotel doors.

They barely get onto the sidewalk before the kids have them circled. Patrick feels his shoulder knocking against Pete as a sea of fans with shiny, beaming faces shove pictures and cell phones at him. It’s immediately too much, too close. Patrick grasps for what he knows and plasters on a smile, his gaze roving over the faces without any sort of ability to take them all in at once. He can hear Pete laughing just beside him, talking to the whole group, voice loud and clear, like he isn’t overwhelmed at all.

Just for once Patrick wants to be that person. He wants to be the one marching through the crowd and taking control of them like a conductor. He wants to be the one with the easy words and perfect smile. But that’s not what happens. Patrick doesn’t do anything. Dirty is suddenly there, pulling them both out of the crowd, clearly space with his thunderous yelling. They’re through the hotel doors and ushered through the lobby before Patrick even has the chance to offer a good bye to the kids.

In the elevator heading up Patrick looks over at Pete, but the bassist is standing in front of the doors, head down, scowling at the floor. When the elevator dings, Pete basically leaps out. Patrick quickly steps after him, catching him by the shoulder. Pete halts like he’s been struck, but doesn’t turn around.

“Hey. Sorry,” says Patrick, swiftly retracting his hand. “I just wanted to see if maybe you wanted to hang out? We haven’t done that in a while.”

Pete shrugs his hand off. “I’m just giving you space, dude,” he mutters. “It’s what you wanted.”

Patrick grimaces. “I don’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you before. I swear. I’m trying to be better now.”

Pete slowly turns around. He rocks back on his heals, eyes dodging every direction except toward Patrick. Finally, he stops rocking, licks his lips, and says, “Mikey said that you walked in on us. That you saw…”

Pete doesn’t continue. His words sink into Patrick’s skin, digging their way into his bones like tiny anchors weighing him down. His eyes immediately skip up the empty hotel hallway. They aren’t supposed to talk about this. Not now. Not ever. But Pete isn’t done.

“I never thought you’d be the one to have a problem with it,” Pete says, raising his stare to look at Patrick. There’s hurt simmering there, and a challenge.

“I don’t!” Patrick blurts, too loudly. He winces, looking around again. He takes Pete by the arm and pulls them away from the elevator, further down the hall. Pete shakes him off again before he can get them to their room.

“You’ve been acting weird all summer,” Pete says. “Don’t pretend you’re not freaked out by this. You won’t—I’ve barely even seen you this tour.”

“That’s because you’ve been out with Mikey,” Patrick mutters.

Pete crosses his arms, mouth turning down at the corners. “See! See, you do have a problem with it. I knew it!”

“I—“ The conversation is slipping away from him. He steps forward, wounded when Pete eyes him warily and edges back. “I don’t. I swear I don’t. Pete, come on.”

“I don’t believe you,” says Pete simply. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. Don’t tell me you don’t think it’s, like, gross or whatever.”

“I don’t,” Patrick repeats lamely. He raises both his hands up, surrendering. “Pete, I swear that’s not what I think. I’m not—I’m—“ he breathes in deep. “Me too.”

Pete’s expression scrunches. “What?”

Patrick looks down the hallway. His hands are clammy. Sweat sticky on his face. “Can we go inside? We can talk about this later.”

“No,” says Pete, taking a step towards him. “What did you just say?”

Patrick desperately doesn’t want to repeat himself. “Please. Can we just go inside?”

Pete uncrosses his arms. He reaches up and takes holds of the hands Patrick is still holding out in front of himself. He pulls them down, but doesn’t release him. They’re brought startlingly near.It feels almost like a performance that’s how close Pete is, except Pete’s voice on stage is never so low.

“What did you just say, Patrick?”

“Can we _please_ just go inside, Pete.”

“No,” says Pete. “Say what you _mean_.”

Patrick takes in an unsteady breath. There’s a look in Pete’s eyes. An understanding that’s slowly spread out from the center of his gold-brown gaze. Patrick couldn’t look away if he wanted to.

“Patrick.”

“I’m gay, Pete.”

The words tear the air between them. Patrick sucks in a huge gasp like he’s been punched. He sees when the words register. The seam of Pete’s mouth splits open. For a moment, no sounds come out.

And then, quietly, like he can’t quite believe it, Pete laughs. His fingers tighten around Patrick’s hands and his head tips forward and he laughs. Patrick can’t see his eyes from under his bangs. The stretch of his lips doesn’t look happy, or even much like a smile.

“Pete?”

Pete’s laughter hiccups his breath as he shakes his head. “I can’t believe this.”

“What?” Patrick pulling back defensively.

“Now? You’re telling me this _now_?” Pete doesn’t resist as Patrick steps away from him. He just keeps on chuckling lightly, head still down and shaking. Patrick’s too raw to reach for him.

“I didn’t want to,” says Patrick, taking his hands back and shoving them into his pockets. “You asked.”

“I thought you hated me,” laughs Pete. “Jesus Christ. I thought I’d fucked it all up.”

Patrick’s chest clenches. “Pete.”

Pete just shakes his head and steps back. He chin lifts, eyes resting on Patrick for a moment like he wants to say something. His mouth even opens. But after a few long seconds, it closes again and Pete retreats.

“This is seriously fucked,” Pete announces.

“Pete.”

“No. Fuck. Fuck this. Maybe now I’m the one who needs space.”

He’s still shaking his head as he turns and walks away.

Patrick wants to follow him, to tell him not to leave. He wants to know what going on in Pete’s head. What he is thinking. He wants to confess everything. Every failed hookup that meant nothing. Every night spent in the dark wishing Pete was there. The way he gets it, Pete’s thing with Mikey. He _wants_. But he doesn’t do anything.

Pete walks away.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Did I miss the deadline to get all my chapters up before the challenge ended? Yes. Did the last chapter still somehow demand to be split into two? Also yes. Guess this means y'all will see me one more time, hopefully tomorrow with a proper ending in store.


	4. Chapter 4

Patrick knows he’s fucked up, but it doesn’t dawn on him just quite how badly until Andy turns up at his hotel room door with an apologetic shrug and his suitcase.

“What did Pete do?” Joe asks, once Patrick’s taken the bed opposite him in the room across the hall. Patrick opens up his suitcase, staring down at all of his items he had so carefully separated and feels like an idiot. He shakes his head.

“Okay,” says Joe. “What did _you_ do?”

Patrick gives up his suitcase and flops down to sit on the bed. He brings his hands together, twisting and twisting them around in his lap, wrestling with Joe’s expectant stare.

“You know Pete and Mikey?” Patrick finally asks. He stares down at his fingernails, trimmed short and neat over the roughness of his callouses, and wished they had the answers. “About their…you know?”

Joe sputters out a cough. He sits up from his pillows with a hunch in his shoulders, like he’s not quite sure where Patrick is taking this or if he wants to follow. “Uh. Yeah, man. Pete’s not exactly subtle.” He stares as Patrick grimaces. “Wait. Are you telling me you _didn’t_ know?”

Patrick shrugs. “I figured it out,” he says to his fingernails.

“And you’re…mad about it?” Joe eventually ventures, sounding more and more like he’s regretting entering the conversation at all.

“I don’t know. I—not really.”

Truth be told, Patrick doesn’t know how he feels. Mad isn’t right. He’s jealous, definitely. There is not point denying that. Not now. But mostly the thought of Pete and Mikey together digs a gaping pit down into the center of him. When he stands on the edge of it and peers down, all he sees are all the things he’s told himself he’s not allowed to have. The little bits and pieces of himself he’s scraped away and buried when he chose to follow Pete out his front door and into stardom.

How much of his life has been spent hiding away in seedy bathrooms and cheap hotels? How many times has he woken up next to someone and had his first thought leap to whether he’d find cameras on his way out the door? How many times has he given up parts of Patrick to make room for Patrick Stump?

And why did he do it? After all this time, why? It all seems so pointless when the one person he was most terrified of perceiving him was hiding on the same side of the door.

He looks up at Joe, at his scruffy jaw scrunched up and uneasy. “Were _you_ mad?”

“About Pete?” Joe clarifies.

“About him being, you know…”

Joe draws up, blinking at Patrick like he’s never seen him before. “No,” he says. He enunciating his next set of syllables carefully. “Is that what _you’re_ upset about?”

Patrick’s face heats. He jerks his head quickly. “No. No, of course not. I guess I was just surprised.”

“Okay, Good. Good.” Even the tension in Joe’s hair deflates as his shoulders come down. “Cause that’d be fucked up, Patrick. Like, seriously fucked up.”

“I know. I wouldn’t,” Patrick promises. “Do I really give off that sort of impression?”

The uncomfortable expression comes back on Joe’s face, like he’d much rather crab walk across the floor to the door he’s eyeing than spend another minute talking about this.

Patrick shakes off his own embarrassment, sitting up straight and leaning forward. “Joe?”

Joe winces. “Okay. So…” Joe draws out the word, blowing it out on a deep breath that puffs his cheeks. “So don’t get offended or anything, but I sort of thought you and Pete were already, you know…together.”

Patrick sits back, dumbfounded. It takes him a solid minute to find his tongue.

“But you know us,” he protests. “You _know_ us.”

Joe’s shoulders rise all the way up to his ears and lock in place there. “Look, I dunno, man. I mean, what am I supposed to think? He’s basically been all over you since we were kids. Pete doesn’t even deny it half the time. Not even in interviews. Neither do you.”

“That’s just a joke. He’s Pete. He’s joking,” says Patrick, numb, ignoring that last bit.

“Sure, sure.” Joe nods rapidly and not looking anywhere within a hundred miles of Patrick’s face. “I dunno. I mean, sure. Maybe. But it’s like. You know he doesn’t act that way around anybody else but you.”

“But you _know_ us,” Patrick repeats. He really cannot stress this enough. “We’ve _lived_ together. We’ve shared an apartment. We’ve—We’ve—“

“Come on, Patrick,” interrupts Joe. His face is burning pink under his scruff. He picks his nails agains the hotel blanket like his eyes might turn to lava if he looks up. “Do you know how many times I walked in you guys at that apartment? My eyes have been scarred, man. For life.” He gives a dramatic shudder. “You don’t even want to know how many times I’ve seen Pete’s naked ass passed out in your bed.”

“What? No, you didn’t,” objects Patrick. “Pete and I have never slept together.”

Joe let’s a pointed silence speak for him. Patrick hunches, bunkering down.

“You know what I mean. We’ve _slept_ together. Like in the same bed, to sleep, but—I mean, Pete had a girlfriend. Why would you even—?”

“Yeah. I don’t know,” says Joe, shrugging. “I’m just saying. My friends don’t sleep half-naked in my bed, you know? I just thought you two didn’t want to talk about it. I mean, me and Andy kind of just figured it was, like, a down-low thing. We didn’t think it was a secret.”

“You and Andy?” echoes Patrick dumbly. “You’ve talked about this?”

“Well. Yeah.”

Patrick stares at Joe for a solid minute. Somewhere in his chest his heart is pumping away like it’s on its own drum solo, but it’s oddly muted to his ears. The gaping hole in the center of him isn’t even empty anymore. It’s like he’s looked down and suddenly seen the mouth of a parallel universe laid out at his feet. His toes are on the rim.

He could take the leap. Down at the bottom of the hole he can see something glimmering. A shiny, hazy thing that can only be a dream. All he has to do is step off and fall.

It’s a very tall height with no safety net.

He looks at Joe, a person he’s known since they were both shitty teenagers, one of the three people on the planet that he’s chosen to take on the world with. He takes a step.

“And you were…cool…with that? With the idea of me and Pete being…together?”

Joe’s gaze jumps of the comforter and up to Patrick. “What? Of course, dude. I mean, I’m not in love with the bickering like an old married couple act, but I deal.”

Good old Joe. Patrick breathes out, ignoring the little tickle in the back of his throat. God but Patrick just really loves his stupid band.

“Right.” Patrick rubs his hands hard against his jeans. “Right.” He stands up. “I think I need to go.”

Joe is fully up now, no longer looking ready to bolt. His head swivels like a submarine periscope as Patrick moves. “You alright, man?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Patrick takes in a shallow, nervous breath. He stops and turns around, because maybe Joe deserves his attention too. Joe has been in his corner for so long, holding onto the net, and Patrick been too afraid to look down he hadn’t even noticed. “I think—“ he says, “I think you weren’t wrong. About me. I do care about Pete. I’m—I care about him like that.”

“Oh.” Joe sighs, slumping back. “Okay. Yeah, cool.” For approximately one second he leans back against the pillows as if the whole matter’s settled and he’d very much like to nap now. Then his eyes pop open and he surges forward. “Shit! Mikey.”

Patrick swallows. He nods. “Yeah. Mikey.”

Joe gawks at him but Patrick doesn’t have any answers. What can he say?

Mikey really is the million dollar question.

*

He forces himself to knock on the door. Once he leaves his room, it isn’t hard to track down where some of the other bands are staying. The management tends to have them travel in herds for tours like this. He’s not exactly surprised to find the My Chem guys settled just two floors above.

Frank Iero opens the door, takes one look at him, and surreptitiously step into the hall. The door behind him closes to the barest sliver, through which Patrick can just make out the buzz of a TV going. Frank crosses his arms. He’s almost as short as Patrick, but the comparison is apples to bulldogs. Frank exists as if every dirty punk club in New Jersey was shrunk into one tiny, graffitied maniac.

“Let me guess,” Frank says. “You’re looking for Pete.”

“Is he with Mikey?”

Frank rolls his eyes. “You know, you’re a real lucky bastard it was me that answer the door and not Gerard. He’s got this crusade against your whole band right now for messing around with his little brother.”

Patrick shrinks. His hands are already clammy and twisting again, the courage he’d won by coming out to Joe fading fast under Frank’s gaze. “Sorry?”

For half a second, Frank just mugs him. Then, almost like magic, the grim exteriors melts into what can only be described as a shit-eating grin. He flaps a hand. “Yeah, whatever. Lucky for you, I am _not_ Mikey Way’s big brother. I don’t really care who he gets his dick wet with. They’re next door. One to the left.”

Patrick deflates in one giant exhale. “Thank you,” he manages.

Frank flashes him two big thumbs up before he slips back through the cracked door. “Don’t forget to knock first!”

The door clicks behind him. Patrick takes the moment of solitude he’s granted in the empty hallway to suck in a deep breath and shake himself. Then he turns to the left and marches to the correct door. When he raises his hand a second time it’s a bit like his first time on stage. His head is so crammed full with words they tumble on top of each other making it hard for him to see the right ones, let alone catch them.

“I need to talk to you,” Patrick mutters as his knuckles stall above the door. “Pete, I’m sorry. I just need to tell you that I—“

“Patrick?”

Patrick jumps away from the door. He spins around. Of course there is Mikey coming down the hallway, all unfairly not-stupid looking in his baggy pajama bottoms and about half a t-shirt. His hair actually looks degreased for once, somehow making it both flatter and more ginormous than usual. He squints at Patrick without his glasses as he walks up closer. “Oh, it is you.”

“Hey,” Patrick returns lamely.

“Hey,” says Mikey, still squinting at him. He stops a few feet away from the door, shifting on his bare feet, ice bucket balanced on one skinny hip. Patrick feels suddenly like the idiot who got the time wrong and showed up two-hours late to object to the wedding.

“You here for Pete?” Mikey asks.

“Yeah,” Patrick admits. His intentions must be written on his forehead. Then, thinking about the last time he’d seen Pete, he adds, “Is he—How is he?”

Mikey shrugs. Patrick’s never noticed before, but Mikey’s always had an easy body posture around him, all slouching shoulders and the slow, lanky movements of an unbothered house cat. Patrick only thinks of this now as finds the stiff way Mikey is currently holding himself, weight on his heels like he’s braced for something.

“Right now?” Mikey asks. “Or about three hours ago when he knocked on my door ready to jump off the balcony?”

Patrick winces. He definitely deserves that. He only hopes Mikey is exaggerating. “Uh, right now, I guess.”

“Right now he’s fine. We’re watching HGTV,” says Mikey shortly. He stops right there, very pointedly not extending an invitation. Unfortunately for Mikey, Patrick’s always been more bullheaded than was good for him, especially when it comes to Pete.

“Can I come in?”

Mikey’s lips press together. He glances away from Patrick for the first time since he’d walked up, looking down the hallway with a frown before he answers. “I don’t know. That might not be a good idea.”

“Look, I’m sorry, alright?” Patrick tries. “I didn’t know about you and Pete. I thought—“ Patrick cuts himself off, biting his tongue. “Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. He was right. It kind of freaked me out. That’s why I need to talk to him.”

Mikey’s eyes come back to him and narrow. They’re smaller without his glasses, but still smudged with old eyeliner the shower must not have taken off. It makes his whole face seem younger somehow—more human and less scene queen.

“I don’t get you,” Mikey finally declares. “One second your basically warning me that Pete is a terrible idea, then you’re telling me it’s cool if I go for it, then you’re getting pissy at me for taking your advice. Now I’ve got Pete flipping out because he just found out his best friend in the entire world—the one I thought he was sleeping with this whole summer—apparently isn’t sleeping with him at all, but is, in fact, also gay.”

“He told you?” Patrick blurts.

Mikey stares at him a long moment, before giving an exasperated laugh. “Patrick, I asked you out, like, one week ago. You think I didn’t know?”

“Yeah, but that was just because—“

“—because what? I thought you were with Pete?”

“I mean, yeah. Why else would you—“

“Okay. Stop,” Mikey bites out, holding up a hand.

Patrick stops. He’s not even sure what they’re fighting about. He’s been trying to push Mikey Way as far from his thoughts has he could. He’s been so green with envy about the Pete situation, he’s barely even had time to process the fact that Mikey had come on to him. Even if it was in a very strange, threesome inclined way.

Mikey sighs, raking a hand through his hair and shifting the ice bucket on his hip again. Then he focuses back on Patrick, face tight. “You don’t know me, Patrick,” he says. “I don’t know you either, Patrick, but like you. Fuck if I know why, but I do.” He shakes his head. “And yeah, maybe it’s because I like the way Pete talks about you. Most of the time anyway. Maybe I was curious about you because of him. But I wouldn’t have asked you out if I didn’t want to. Believe it or not, I don’t just ask people out because I’m sleeping with their boyfriend.”

Patrick opens his mouth. “Pete and I aren’t—“

“Aren’t you?” Mikey snaps.

Patrick’s stomach bottoms out. He steps back, but Mikey doesn’t follow him. He doesn’t even look at him, sighing again and raking more hair out of his face. He chuckles without humor. “Yeah, I thought so.”

Patrick stares at the floor, thoroughly ashamed. “How did you know?” Patrick asks.

“That you’re gay?”

Patrick flinches. “Can you—Can you not say that so loud out here please? We’re in public.”

Mikey looks at him, then turns and rakes his eyes slowly up and down the very empty hallway. Patrick’s face burns, but he doesn’t retract his request. Mikey’s brows slowly climb high up on his face.

“So that’s it? You’re a closet case? That’s the big hang up?”

“I’m not—“ Patrick hisses. He quickly stops himself. He’s not trying to get into another fight here. He’s not even really mad at Mikey. He doesn’t know how he feels. “Okay. Fine. Yes. I’m in the closet. I’m in a fucking band, Mikey. You’re not out either. You know how it is. What do you want from me?”

Mikey shifts the ice on his hip, cocking it out to one side while his head tilts to another. “Honestly, more than you can probably handle,” he says and Patrick blinks because what? But Mikey is already continuing. “If I open this door, are you walking in to say you’re sorry or is what you’re really asking me to do is to let you in so I can watch you steal my boyfriend?”

Patrick pulls up, startled. Mikey laughs again, a grimace on his face.

“Yeah. I thought so.”

Then Mikey shifts again, pulling out his key card. Patrick steps back as Mikey unlocks the door, then blinks in confusion when Mikey holds it open.

“But you just said…”

Mikey just sighs harshly and jerks his chin. “Hurry up, Stump. I already told you I’m not interested in coming between you two.”

With wide eyes, Patrick slowly eases himself through the door. Mikey doesn’t look at him. He brushes past as soon as Patrick’s in, walking into the hotel room proper and pushing the ice bucket onto the dresser where the TV sits.

“Hey,” Mikey says, crossing his arms and leaning back against the dresser. “Patrick’s here.”

There’s no hiding now. Patrick chokes down his spit and steps further into the room. There’s a lump in the middle of one of the beds that can only be Pete, swaddled up as he is in blankets and pillows and a hood pulled tight over his bangs. The part of him that’s visible perks up as Mikey walks in, then stiffens ramrod straight at the mention of Patrick. The lump turns slowly towards Patrick. The top of Pete’s nose and a sliver of his eyes are just visible from beneath his blanket coverings.

Patrick swallows and gives a tiny wave. “Hey, Pete.”

The lump of blankets just sits there, the gleam of Pete’s eyes barely discernible but clearly watching. Pete is such a social person usually, it’s hard to remember sometimes the other side of him. The one that goes quiet and small when the world gets too big.

Patrick tries to be brave. Tries to remember what it was like the first time he ever walked on stage or the first time he ever opened his mouth and sang for the guys or the first time he told his mom that the band was what he wanted to do with his life. The problem is, he’d never have done any of that without Pete right there with him, at his back. Patrick’s never been in the position where Pete’s been on the other side.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says, because it’s about as good of a place to start as anything. Mikey is still watching him with those narrow eyes, arms crossed and feet planted heavily. It’s the extra audience that keep Patrick from just crossing the room and pulling Pete in a hug, tugging off the blankets until he could see Pete’s face.

“I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted this summer,” Patrick says, slowly approaching the bed. “I shouldn’t have shut you out. I should have told you what was going on.”

Pete’s eyes stare at him. The lump of blankets doesn’t move. Obviously, that’s not good enough.

“When I saw you with Mikey I should have told you,” Patrick continues, edging forward until he stands at the foot of Pete’s bed. “We should have talked about it. You’re my best friend, Pete. I don’t want there to be any secrets coming between us.”

Patrick stops talking. There’s maybe a minuscule movement in the blankets, like Pete has shifted, but that’s it. There’s still the elephant in the room. The one Patrick’s been beating back since the moment he climbed into a van with Pete.

“And I should have told you I was gay,” admits Patrick, thunderous heart pounding in his ears. He doesn’t let himself pause. Doesn’t let himself feel the weight of it. He just needs to tear the words out before they fester any further. “I guess I was just scared. Of what you and the guys would think. Of what it would mean if I told people. Ruining things. You and me—we’ve always been solid. I didn’t want this one part of me to mess up what we had. I didn’t want you feeling weird around me or acting different or—“

“But that’s what you did!”

The lump of blankets shift, then fall off. Pete emerges from the cocoon with his guard fully up, shoulders at his ears and blanket draped around his shoulders.

“I know,” Patrick says, raising his hands up in front of him, desperate not to lose Pete back into his silence.

“You could have just told me,” Pete says, standing up from the bed, blanket wrapped around him like armor. “I thought I’d fucked up. Again. You made me feel like I had done something wrong, Patrick. Like _I_ was wrong.”

Patrick swallows. He takes a step forward, hands still raised. “I messed up. I know. I’m sorry. It just felt like you were gone. When I saw you and Mikey, it was like everything just came forward. You and Mikey—“ Patrick’s eyes slide over to Mikey, whose still watching them silently, “—you two were doing what I had always been afraid to do. I was jealous.”

Jealous. The word echoes out in the space between them, ringing like a warning bell.

Pete stares at him, blankets sliding down his shoulders. All the hurt is still there. It must have been building up for days while Patrick was too up his own ass to realize it. “Jealous of what?” Pete asks.

“Of being honest. Of losing you.” Patrick shakes his head. “You’ve always thought I was more than I am. I never wanted to let you down.”

“You couldn’t,” says Pete, in a much smaller voice than before. “You’re Patrick. You’ll always be my Patrick.”

And it’s--it’s not like Patrick’s never heard those words before, but maybe this is the first time he’s ever really let himself listen.

“I guess I didn’t want to lose that,” Patrick admits. “You’re Pete. If you knew I was gay—I mean, come on. I never told anybody and half the world still knows that I’m in love with you.”

There’s this unbearable silence. Patrick listens to the words that just came out of his mouth and feels dizzy. Pete just stares at him, unblinking, mouth and body still.

“So, yeah,” Patrick says finally. “I guess I’m in love with you…in case you didn’t know.”

Patrick stands there, out of things to say, eyes dropping to the floor and hands swinging empty at his sides as he waits for Pete’s response. What he gets instead of words is two arms suddenly wrapping around him. Patrick stiffens at first, his usual response to Pete getting too close, before his brain catches up to his body. He lets go. He sighs, pressing his face into Pete’s neck as the other man embraces him almost too tight. He hears Pete’s breath catch right beside his ear, then feels Pete’s arms squeeze tighter around him.

“Me too,” Pete whispers, words warm against Patrick’s skin “I should have told you too. I’ve been in love with you since forever. How could you not know?”

Patrick laughs, burying his face deeper into Pete’s neck. “We’re so stupid,” he says.

Pete laughs too. “Yeah. Fuck yeah we are.”

They sway gently in their exuberance and relief. Patrick digs his fingers into Pete’s warm back and it’s everything that Patrick’s never let himself have. Everything they’d hidden away in those nights spent curled into each other behind curtains, or moments of connection caught on stage before Patrick remembered the world was watching and pulled away.

Patrick eases back from Pete, just to cup one hand on Pete’s jaw to draw him closer.

“I love you,” he says, because he’s always been braver with Pete.

The smile that slowly blossoms on Pete’s face is all consuming. He nods into Patrick’s palm, eyes gold and shiny. “Yeah. Yeah, of course I love you. I fucking love you so much Patrick Stump.”

“God, we’re dumb,” Patrick breathes, rubbing his thumb against Pete’s smiling face. Pete beams at him, giggling.

There’s a click behind them. Patrick doubts he would have heard it if not for the way the smile slips from Pete’s face. Then Patrick knows exactly what happened.

“Mikey,” Pete whispers, grip loosening on Patrick as he pulls back.

Patrick turns around. Mikey is gone from his perch near the TV. The hotel door is closed. Patrick feels his guts clench. _Unfair_ , it screams. _That’s just not fair._

When Partick turns back Pete’s face is striken. “Shit,” Pete whispers.

“It’s okay,” Patrick says, squeezing Pete’s hand, sensing the on coming spiral. “Pete, look at me. It’s okay.”

Pete’s eyes flicker from him to the door and back again. The happy gleam is gone. He says, panicked, “What did I just do? Patrick, what did I just do?”

Patrick recalls Mikey’s resigned words just as he opened the hotel room. He shakes his head. “He was expecting it. He knew. He’s known this whole time.”

“Well I didn’t!” exclaims Pete. He pulls fully away from Patrick this time, pacing the narrow strip of floor between the beds, scraping his hands through his hair. The blanket winds up on the ground, tangling around his feet. He pauses when he nearly trips, staring at Patrick with horrified eyes. “Dammit! I can’t do this to him, Patrick. I—He doesn’t deserve this.”

Patrick shakes his head, stepping forward. He takes Pete’s hands, then gently pushes him back toward the bed. Pete goes easy, if only because Patrick takes that moment to press his lips against Pete’s, kissing him until his knees bend against the mattress.

It’s their first real kiss. Patrick lets go of Pete’s hands to curl his fingers around the back of Pete’s neck, deepening the press of their lips. Pete is slack against him, quiet except for the tiny noise he’d made when the kiss began. It’s a closed mouth. Simple. Almost chaste, except for the way Pete chases him panting when Patrick breaks it.

“Wait,” says Patrick, drawing back, pushing down on Pete’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

Pete blinks up at him, dazed. “What? No.”

“Just trust me,” Patrick says, stepping back until Pete finally lets him go. “Right back. I swear. It’s going to be okay.”

“Patrick!”

Patrick hurries away before Pete can draw him back`. He steps out into the hotel hallway just in time to hear the elevator doors ding open down the hall.

“Mikey! Hey, Mikey. Wait.”

Mikey’s head turns. He pauses after one step forward, shoulders slumped and and head down. Patrick half-runs his way over, which is a terrible idea. He’s already regretting it when he pulls up in front of Mikey, flushed.

“Don’t go,” Patrick manages, shaking his head urgently when Mikey just frowns at him. “I’m serious. Don’t go. He doesn’t want you to.”

“I told you I’m not interested in coming between you two,” Mikey says, shoving his hands into his pajama pockets and sighing. He doesn’t look at Patrick.

“I know,” says Patrick. “I know. You said so. You should come back inside.”

Mikey picks his gaze off of the floor to stare at him. “Pete’s in love with you.”

“Yeah. Yeah he is.” Patrick smiles, because that’s _true_ and he still quiet can’t believe it. He’s not done cementing it. But first he needs to do this. He shakes his head, forcing Mikey to meet his eyes.“But he likes you.”

Mikey’s shoulder hunch even further. “Can we not? You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve told you—“

“You don’t want to come between us,” Patrick nods. “Very noble. Could you please be a little less noble and listen to what I’m saying. Pete _likes_ you.”

Mikey’s frown deepens. Behind him, the elevator doors time out and slowly begin to close. Mikey’s eyes glance over to them, but he doesn’t move as they seal shut behind him.

Finally, he sighs, almost scowling. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Patrick says. “But look at what just happened. I’m a proven idiot honestly.”

“You don’t even like me,” Mikey says, still hunched and defensive.

Patrick shakes his head. “I don’t even _know_ you. But Pete likes you. Isn’t that what you said? And I’m curious.”

Mikey still looks uncertain. Patrick shakes his head again, stepping forward. Bravery. He reaches out, gently touching Mikey’s arm and slowly tugging his hand out of his pocket. Mikey lets him.

Patrick slowly winds their fingers together, not caring that their in the middle of the hotel hallway where anyone could see, not thinking of anything else but Mikey and Pete and the hotel room behind him.

“Why don’t you just come inside and we can…we can try. It doesn’t hurt to try, does it? I mean, we’ve got all summer.”

Slowly, very slowly, Mikey relaxes. A tiny, hesitant smile comes across his face. His fingers press against Patrick’s own.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. We’ll try.”

“We’ve got time,” says Patrick, smiling, tugging Mikey back down the hall. Back to Pete. “We’ve got all summer.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooo! Am I on time? Not at all. Am I pretty happy with the ending regardless? Yup.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed!


End file.
